


living for living

by dinosuns



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Falling In Love, M/M, Slice of Life, Slow Dancing, Supernatural Elements, Surreal, Zombie Apocalypse, bad humour, classic rock music plays in the bg, just hear me out on this you'll see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-30 01:17:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16755076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinosuns/pseuds/dinosuns
Summary: As the warmth oozes through him, Shiro sets the cup down.“Wow, I really needed that.” He decides then, it’s time to stop beating around the bush. “Am I dead?” It's a better question than 'are you some kind of higher ethereal being?'With cheekbones and a jawline like that, Shiro thinks this stranger could be.When the world ended, in some twisted beautiful way, his own begun. Funny - Shiro never thought he'd find a dawn that doesn't dwindle in the dark.





	living for living

**Author's Note:**

> for a prompt of 'zombie au'. i've been thinking for a while about putting my own twist to such a verse! some mild gore so be careful, but it's only in passing. super excited to share, it's just really fun and ridiculous. enjoy!

There's movement in his peripheral. Shiro runs. Chest heaves, fists clench and breath grows ragged. The street is wide, but the only detours are narrow dimly-lit alleyways that he cannot trust. The only way out of this macabre maze is ahead. Cities are damning places, one of the biggest death traps. And he knows, deep in his aching tired bones he knows he shouldn't be here. Especially not with daylight tapering off on the horizon. It's a mistake, and it might just cost him everything. Not just his life and his soul. His body. 

Running through a field of debris becomes more like a challenging obstacle course he didn't prepare for. It slows him down. Legs burn as he pushes forwards. He's heavy. But the things stirring behind will be undeterred. Shiro doesn't need to look to confirm that. They don't care for tearing a limb or impaling themselves on something. They just care to devour, to gnaw. Bite. Enduring unnatural deformities, mindless, frantic and no longer human. He weaves through the abandoned cars, to looted electronics scattered across the ground. Death is present amongst all of it. It leaves its mark in grotesque ways that are difficult to avoid. Blood paints rusted doors a dark red, the pavement is coated with it.

Shiro stumbles over a misplaced curtain pole, mind racing for something, anything. An escape. He needs an escape, and that's getting closer and closer to a miracle. This is bad. The foreboding sounds of jaws snapping and low grunting will follow him as far as he dares go. They're locked onto him at this point. To keep running is a gamble. Scanning his surroundings, Shiro assesses his best option. Most of the shops are raided, windows smashed and doors kicked in. The pharmacy ahead in any other situation would be a good checkpoint for supplies, but not with a horde on his tail getting too close to shake. Much like the other places, it's not well fortified.

Then he sees it.

On the other side of the street is an illusion from another dimension. Confusion cuts through the fear driving his body to move. It’s otherworldly. Preserved and pristine, in a way that makes no sense. And more strange is the fact someone is inside. Sat at the window seat, on full display to the carnage that might just rear its ugly head their way. They don't seem at all fazed by that. For a moment, Shiro wonders if they're even alive, or in the process turning. They're not moving, but their eyes are open.

Shiro raises a hand, and waves. He's stalled too long, has but minutes left out here on this street. In an instant, the stranger snaps to attention. Reflexes are much quicker than the infected, less mechanical. Their eyes meet. It's magnetising. Shiro hopes the desperation cuts through the dirty glass. Sometimes, people can be more volatile and troublesome than the things that have caged them in this apocalyptic nightmare. A fiery will to survive overthrows basic human kindness.

The stranger stands without hesitation, then the front door opens. Behind Shiro, the horde are stirring with more frenzy. Hands crawl across his jacket, mouths too close and the stench of rotting flesh filling his lungs. This could be it, how he dies. But the hand that fists into his jacket and tugs him forwards is much faster. Sharp and fierce, the stranger uses his other hand to throw a blade into the forehead of one getting too close. There’s no room for compromise. It’s so convincing, Shiro thinks this stranger could challenge this entire horde to a fight and probably win.

But he doesn't. His only goal is pulling Shiro inside. Regaining balance, Shiro presses his weight against the door whilst the stranger secures it. The extra locks holding it in place look handmade. They're far sturdier, built for the sole purpose of keeping stuff out. Despite the door shaking, it seems secure enough to withstand the pressure. The infected collate around the coffee shop, drawn to their presence. They’re growing in numbers. Right where he once stood, is a swarm.

More out of annoyance than anything else, the stranger huffs. With a press of the button by the door, thick shutters come down to block the front of the shop. In the process, spindly fingers are sliced off, smearing blood across the glass. The commotion outside continues, to no avail. All to the backdrop of a nostalgic guitar solo crackling from a record player in the corner. Music. There's music here. Rock music. 

It's a coffee shop. Just as he observed from outside, it remains untarnished in spite of the anarchy that has plagued the entire world. It only gets more bizarre when the stranger gets behind the counter in a way that's far too routine. He grabs a cup from the shelves above his head, asks the most unexpected question Shiro has heard in months. 

“What’ll it be?"

* * *

Now static, the harrowing realisation of how close he came to death threatens to smother him. But a more bizarre bewilderment keeps the beast at bay. Shiro considers, amidst the sunflower yellow walls and vibrant paintings on the wall, the parameters of his own existence. Just how far does a conscience truly stretch fold? And can it truly replicate such a realistic picture from nothing...

He wonders this, because he’s unsure about something supermassive: if he really made it out alive. It’s not as implausible as it first seems, that he’s dead. This could be a strange kind of purgatory, a limbo with a handsome stranger. Everything about this is surreal, so heavily detached from the gritty dystopian reality. It’s lighter. That in itself is the anomaly, because Shiro doesn’t know if that’s a good thing anymore. Nothing in this world is tranquil, not even the songs of the birds. It’s all been twisted, tormented by something so terrible.

This is the kind of scene he’d expect to see on his morning commute four years ago, not in the middle of a ghost city. These places were some of the first to go, unfit to survive a hardened world. The smell of the freshly brewed coffee, something so foreign and lost amongst chaos, is far too inviting. His concerns ebb away. If this is purgatory, then he died honourably and deserves this. He takes a large gulp, barely concerned for the scalding of his tongue.

To feel a burn from something so trivial is liberating.

As the warmth oozes through him, Shiro sets the cup down.

“Wow, I really needed that.” He decides then, it’s time to stop beating around the bush. “Am I dead?”

It's a better question than ' _are you some kind of higher ethereal being?'_

With cheekbones and a jawline like that, he could be. 

A hushed laugh escapes the stranger’s lips.

"No." The low husk of their voice ripples above the music from the counter. Not completely smooth, sharp like a blade. Flecks of blood streak his shirt, seeping into the apron. Gormless, Shiro can only stare. Part of him still isn’t sure. The stranger could be lying.

"You cut it pretty fine back there."

That's an understatement. Had this stranger not intervened, not opened the door, he'd be amongst the horde outside. If he’s actually alive, that is.

“Thanks for saving me,” he settles for, outstretching a hand. “I’m Shiro.”

The stranger takes the hand, shaking it firmly. And maybe it’s a little pathetic, but it’s that touch alone that convinces Shiro this is real. Heart stutters, heat rushes through his veins. He’s alive. He’s also very attracted to this mysterious stranger.

“Keith. Nice to meet you.”

The stranger - Keith - retreats to wipe down the counter with an absent hum. A faint whirring of machinery catches Shiro's attention. He thinks back to the coffee. That had been part of his doubts for this being real. There’s no power in the city, electricity going out roughly six months ago. The world has been entrenched in darkness, completely off the grid. Even quarantine zones set up by the Garrison struggle to keep themselves running.

Yet here in this quaint little coffee shop, there is power and it comes in so many forms. Examining the cup, Shiro squints at it. He can’t fault it, or explain it.

As if hearing the doubts, the pressing questions, Keith takes the finished coffee away.

“Heh, that stuff’s not really a problem for me.” The twinkle in his eyes is far too mischievous and the lack of context is curious. Before Shiro can press the ambiguity, Keith continues. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be back soon."

A giant wolf, streaked with blue fur and bright yellow eyes darts to his side.

Then they both disappear.

* * *

The wolf has no name.

But for the sake of making things easier on himself Shiro decides to call him Kosmo. It’s a worthy name, as if not quite plucked out from the stars - caught between earth and someplace else. According to Keith, Kosmo had been bitten by a Zom. Possibly more than one. That’s how the pair of them met. Shiro doesn’t miss the fierce affection in Keith’s eyes as he retells the story of rescuing the wolf from a horde, hand scratching behind Kosmo’s ear.

For reasons unknown to Keith, the bite didn’t turn Kosmo. Not fully, anyway. Rather than becoming a bloodthirsty infected creature, the wolf had developed extraordinary abilities. Half-turned, adopting the yellow eyes of those bitten, but nothing else. Of all things, a new unexpected skill included teleportation. The charge emitted during and after the event produced enough energy to use as a powersource.

It would have been hard to believe, had Shiro not seen the pair of them dissipate in front of his eyes a handful of times without warning.

Days pass, and Keith seems in no rush to send Shiro on his way. He doesn’t question sharing the space, and he seems almost pleased when the regulars across the street begin to include Shiro in their coffee meetings. Over hot drinks in cosy booths, Shiro learns of a small tight knit community living in the city. Keith fetches them emergency supplies, medicine, offers them a place to simply exist when they need to forget the monsters chewing up trivial ghosts and demons outside.

The mirth outshines the mourning, and the people here enjoy life just as fiercely as they endure it.

Shiro’s journey had been aimless before. Something about being here has purpose beyond description. The intangible nature of it is far too enticing. And Shiro isn’t sure how he fits into this picture yet, but Keith never makes him feel like part of the furniture. He’s called to assist in the coffee-making and forever banned from cooking (not that there’s much cooking going on in the first place, honestly).

It’s in these moments Shiro comes to a realisation; Keith has made peace with this. Somehow, he really has. Maybe it took months, maybe it broke him first. Time may have strived to wear him down, weather every piece of him, but Keith hasn’t splintered enough to lose his foundations. Perhaps he has not made peace with all of it, for ominous shadows hang over his eyes when he thinks Shiro isn’t looking. But he’s content in a way that leaves no room for self-pity and martyrdom. No.

Keith sees the world through a lens that is horrifyingly clear. Objective in a way that is rare to come by. He doesn’t sugarcoat or pretend everything is fine. Yet he doesn’t resent it, not entirely. There’s a bitterness nobody can rid themselves of given the way things have turned out. Rather than embrace that, Keith cleaves it open and reaps what he can from that corpse.

When the world ended, in some twisted beautiful way, Keith’s own finally begun.

Funny. Shiro never thought he'd find a dawn that doesn't dwindle in the dark. 

* * *

The shutters slam down. Shiro frowns, hoping it's pointed enough for Keith to glance his way. The sound never gets any more pleasing to the ear. Of everything in the shop, it’s the one reminder that beyond these walls lies hell incarnate.

“What if you have customers?”

Keith gestures absently to the signs slapped onto the window. The question doesn’t faze him.

“Closed today.”  

“Do people really pay attention to that?” Shiro knows in his haste to get clear of the horde on his heels all those weeks ago, he certainly didn’t hesitate to flock towards the only place with lights on. The only place with signs of life, the human kind.

“Yeah.” Keith rummages through his backpack, searching for something with avid concentration. He pulls out a small rusting blade, fastening it to his belt. “Most strangers don’t think to stop here unless they’re really looking.”

Shiro inspects the sign closer. It’s not the handwritten messy scrawl scattered across the chalk boards and scraps of paper that he expected. Instead, the sign is neatly printed. Unless Keith is some kind of doomsday conspiracist who had prepared excessively for this years in advance, there is no way to explain the signs. Then again, there’s also no real way Shiro can explain the fact most of the appliances in the shop still work without a problem.

“How did you get it printed?”

“Hm?”

“The sign.”

“Oh. At the library. I still had some points left on my card,” Keith responds as if it’s the most normal mundane thing to do in the world and isn’t pretty much an impossible feat. 

Blinking slow, Shiro processes it but it’s still too far-fetched. The thought of Keith sitting by an industrial printer, making open and closed signs with detailed opening hours for a coffee shop in the middle of an apocalypse is bewildering. God forbid he ever got a paper jam. Shiro laughs. The sound fills the room, hearty and content.

Of course, only Keith.

* * *

The first time Keith takes him on a trip with Kosmo, it’s to a nauseatingly expensive shop in London called ‘Harrods’. Just because. Having a teleporting wolf for a companion certainly has its perks. Places that hold no interest before soon become near morbid curiosities and ‘ _why the hell not’_ s. You can be as pretentious as you want, and on the flipside equally as tasteless. Nobody is here to judge or condescend. Freedom has never been so raw. Flashing a grin, Keith steers Shiro to the menswear, insists he picked out some clothes. Shiro takes a handful of exceptionally soft tops and a pair of shoes that look like they’re begging to be fucked up by the apocalypse.

Keith leaves wearing a leather jacket with a four-figure price tag.

It looks sinfully good on him.

From that point on, Shiro joins Keith on most journeys out the shop. Each time is no less exhilarating, even the mundane everyday tasks. Keith does his laundry at the local laundromat, with the assistance of Kosmo’s gifts. He goes food shopping at stores nearby and across the ocean. He browses abandoned warehouses halfway across the globe for resources. And then, they stargaze in Iceland before locking up the shop. Shiro almost puts his arm around him that night, beneath an array of stars, regrets doing so the entire weekend. One morning, Keith takes Shiro to the pyramids (“See? No tourists.”). They even spend an afternoon in multiple different Ikea stores picking out strange needless decor. 

It’s overwhelming, how underwhelming tasks that suddenly snap into impossible phenomenon are both so intricately etched into his routine.  

Despite the absurdity of it all, Shiro can’t deny it. Days unfold into weeks in a slow and languid way. Time is no longer chasing at his heels, counting down to his end. It’s moving forward. There’s a warmth settling into his bones, making itself comfortable there.

This is the most at home he’s felt for years.

* * *

Some days, they don’t travel. Instead, hours pass where they dwell in the quiet company of each other. Weeks have bled into months, Shiro thinks. He’s not too sure at this point. Maybe it’s foolish, but he lost track of time a long time ago. Time is measured in how much food they have left, when their next trip is, how long the shadows look on the pavement. Simple, serene.

From the counter, Keith observes the CCTV footage from outside. A look through the windows indicates the coast is clear, but Shiro understands the need for vigilance. There are blind spots everywhere, especially in a half-wrecked city street where masses of debris scatter across the pavement like litter in a poorly maintained park.

“Looking good out there, not an empty head in sight.”

Empty head - well, that’s a new one.  

Hopping over the counter, Keith shrugs on his leather jacket. It’s far too smooth and definitely not necessary,and Shiro feels obligated to call him out for showing off his admittedly agile and impressive moves. He doesn't. Not when it's another thing that makes the apocalyptic nightmare outside seems almost like nothing more than a fever dream. Keith slides a fingerless glove on, the other caught between his teeth. It’s so unfair that Shiro has found himself in this situation, honestly.

“Let’s bounce,” Keith says, leather glove still dangling from his mouth.

He slips it on finally, but Shiro remains haunted. Knives are strapped to his belt, several tucked into his boot, and even in the insides of the jacket. Gesturing to the knives, Shiro climbs out of his terrible crisis. Or at least he thinks he has. The words that come out his mouth indicate otherwise.

“Good thing you’re not going to the airport, you’d never make it past security.

The resulting rise of Keith’s eyebrows give no room for the words to live. Just like Shiro’s dignity, they perish under the intense scrutiny of those narrowing eyes. Keith is the epitome of unimpressed, evidently. Sheepish, Shiro averts his gaze. He is fortunate there is no time to stew in this moment. The unlocking of the front door captures his attention. Bewildered, Shiro searches for Kosmo. The wolf is nowhere to be seen. Probably resting, their trip to the leaning Eiffel Tower must have been quite strenuous.

Glancing over his shoulder, Keith clicks his tongue with something near to exasperation. They’ve been static too long, perhaps.

“You coming?”

“I-... Aren’t we going to-? You know.” Fists flying open, Shiro is mortified that a whispery ‘whoosh’ escapes his lips. As if that made his gesture any clearer. Lips twitching, Keith waits for an elaboration. None comes. Shiro makes the same motion (‘whoooosh’), and understanding flashes over Keith’s face - along with a smirk that is not appreciated despite it being unspeakably fond.

“No need. It’s just five doors down.”

Shiro blinks in surprise, because this is new.

Eyes dancing with mirth and amusement, Keith tugs him forward onto the empty, deserted street. Immediately, the pungent stench of rotting flesh fills the air. Shiro splutters, hands tightening around the gun in his pocket by instinct. Keith seems to notice the movement, astute and alert to his surroundings despite his casual countenance. He bolts the door shut with a light thud, key shoved into his back pocket. When he turns, his grin is almost as toothy as a Zom with a gaping exposed jaw. Only of course, it’s a much more pleasant sight.

Even if the reason is a little horrifying.

“If we hurry up, then we won’t need to _blam blam blam_ either.”

The rasp in Keith’s voice sounds misplaced, too airy. But not from breathlessness or exertion. It’s then Shiro realises Keith is stifling a laugh, shoulders shaking from the force of it. Nudging into his side, Shiro bites down on his own smile.

“How else do you imagine laser guns sounding?” Apparently, Keith is not going to let that one go after their movie night. That Punk.

A cheeky grin curves around Keith’s mouth. “Anything but that.”

The rain has washed most of the blood stains from the cobbled street. As sunlight pokes through the clouds powdering a crisp blue sky, the ground shimmers beneath. Pockets of stardust collect in puddles, silvery streams of overflow washing into drains. That constant trickle of water is somewhat peaceful. There’s an orange glow to the street, the kind that unfurls only in the winter sun. Despite the chill, it makes everything seem warm in a way Shiro never thought the outside could be again.

“I haven’t walked this slow for a while,” he admits, breath spiralling like a smoke grenade in front of him. The street is quiet, but that doesn’t make it eerie or unnerving. Their trips out have never been like this before. The contrast feels important, Shiro can't pinpoint why. "It’s kind of nice.”

Surreal is a better fit. Even now, the pieces of reality don’t fit. People wake up and their immediate thought is often for survival, not taking a morning stroll down a derelict street to god knows where.

“Yeah,” Keith steps over a decomposing limb, face scrunching at the unwelcome squelch beneath his boots. It looks like parts of an intestine. That seems to spur on Keith’s next words, dripping with sarcasm that could cut a head off clean better than any knife.

“I mean, forgetting that there are Zoms out there who will either turn you, maul you to shreds or eat you alive…- it’s good.”

Shiro laughs at that. The sound is still hushed, restrained. Letting go completely out in the open is a mistake he refuses to make. They walk a few more paces before Keith comes to a halt, announcing they’ve arrived. A battered sign hangs from the doorway, bloody handprints smearing the wood. But it’s not quite defaced enough to be nameless, not when the print is an obnoxious yellow. It reads ‘Red’s Records’, despite the colour of the font. A golden lion pokes its head out from the O, mane crowned in musical notes.

Keith peers into the record shop’s window, deeming it fit to enter. Through the sunglasses, it’s a mystery how he can even see inside. He slips in, wasting no time to comb his way through the dusty racks of untouched vinyls. Out of habit, Shiro takes a look himself before nudging the creaky door open. It’s a quaint shop, cosy but packed with boxes of records. Some second hand, some new, every shelf is rammed with stock.  

Sunglasses propped up on his forehead, pushing the hair off his face, Keith tucks a record under his arm. For a moment they remain wordless. Shiro’s eyes swing like a pendulum from the doorway to Keith, half anticipating an ambush. Even now, it’s difficult to break this habit of checking every corner. This kind of place wouldn’t bode well to get caught in. It’s cramped, and there’s nowhere to hide between the records. Not to mention the shelves look highly unstable. The more Shiro takes in the shop, the more of a deathtrap it proves itself to be.

“You should pick something out, we can play it later.”

“Like what?” Shiro asks before he can stop himself. It’s been years since he even thought about listening to music, yet alone individual artists. His bones rattle with something that isn’t fear, pulse thrumming faster beneath his skin. Keith’s presence does that to him, it’s intoxicating. Lifting his head, Keith offers a small but sincere smile.

“Whatever you want.”

One record soon turns into three, and after a few more minutes of browsing, Keith concedes it’s time they went back. Overall, they have quite an impressive stack between them. Leaning over, Keith raises an eyebrow. He’s curious. 

“What did you pick?”

Holding the records behind his back, Shiro smiles. Mischief cracks beneath his veins. It’s childish, the giddy energy that engulfs him when Keith pouts of all things.

“You’ll find out later.”

Slamming the faded coupon onto the counter, Keith salutes to the maggot-infested corpse draped over the cash register. Shiro doesn’t miss the flash of something poignant in those eyes. He’s paying respects, in a rather unconventional way.

The walk back is more hurried than their leisurely stroll earlier, but it’s not frantic. Keith swings his arms more than necessary with every step, fingers grazing Shiro’s as they pass. The sunglasses give away nothing, nor does the firm press of Keith’s lips. Shiro is left burning at the subtle simple touch. It’s as agonising as a pair of human teeth sinking into flesh and peeling it back. And Shiro knows exactly what something that ugly feels like, has a prosthetic in place of his right arm to prove it.

Kosmo whines once the door opens, barrelling into Keith. As they fall to the ground, Shiro bolts the front door shut. The wolf is evidently unimpressed not to have been invited to the trip. One playful push has devolved into the pair of them rolling across the floor in an indiscernible pile. Small grunts and huffs fill the room. Bemused, Shiro watches Kosmo paw at Keith’s shoulder. Despite the wolf’s size and strength, the motions are entirely harmless, full of affection. Eyes trailing across the room, Shiro catches sight of Keith’s records splayed out by the doorway. He scoops them up, curiously browsing the titles whilst taking them to the cardboard box in the corner.

Amongst the classic rock and blues repertory, one complete anomaly catches his eye.

“Lisa Stansfield?”

Nudging Kosmo off his chest, Keith grins. He holds out a hand, Shiro regrets that he almost goes to take it with his own. No. That’s not what Keith is asking from the floor with dishevelled hair and a teasing look in those big eyes. Is it? Getting to his feet, Keith snatches the record from Shiro’s hands. The record starts spinning, an airy dated synth accompanying soulful vocals.

“Hey. Don’t knock something until you’ve listened to it at the end of the world.”

The ambience of years lost to global destruction pour out around them. Biting down on his lip, Shiro finds himself sinking into it more than expected. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

For good measure, Keith turns the volume up a few notches. Brass chords stab through between the main chorus, paired with glassy strings. The ripples of music vibrate through Shiro, a welcomed sensation. Keith walks with a lazy sway towards the front door. His body seems to loosen around the beat of the music, and Shiro pointedly ignores giving those hips any attention. Even though they deserve all the attention, in his opinion. Outside, decaying faces with savage expressions loom closer. A particularly nasty one with no teeth drags its tongue over the window.

“Sorry,” Keith says over the music, fingers tapping the button on the side. After another Zom bares its teeth, he presses it down. The shutters come down clean and fast, dulling the commotion. “No ticket, no entry.”

“I don’t think they’re fans.”

“Ha,” Keith ducks his head, hiding the curve of his lips. Shiro has to take a breath to hold himself together, he wants to chase that mouth. Amidst the hissing and snarling of the zombies outside, the thump of a pop bass stretching through the room, Keith’s breathy laughter is a sweet yet solemn melody.

“I guess it is kind of corny.”

Maybe it’s the music, maybe it’s the playful air around them. Shiro doesn’t question it, decides to indulge the moment calling them closer. “Corny enough to dance to?”

Tilting his head, Keith considers the words with a hum. He meets Shiro halfway regardless, one hand creeping up to rest on a shoulder.

“Sure.”

* * *

In all honesty, they’re cutting it a little fine.

The Zoms are swarming, and there’s only so many shopping carts Shiro can kick their way without losing the one he’d been shovelling tinned macaroni cheese into. Of all the food raids he’s done, this has never been on the menu before. Only once the shelf is cleared, a few other items and dog treats thrown in, do they leave. A flash of light surrounds them, and barely a moment passes before they’re back in the coffee shop. He praises Kosmo for the good job, rewarding the wolf with one of the treats.

“Running errands now?” Keith asks, pointedly not glancing up from his book he definitely isn’t reading. Shiro’s caught him using it as an excuse to steal glances, the page number never changes. 

“We were getting low.”

Pushing the cart to the counter, Shiro hangs his jacket on the coat rack. If the place ever does get broken into, at least that will make a decent Zom skewer. Unread book abandoned, Keith unpacks the cart. Twenty macaroni cheese cans later, he stares down with pursed lips.

“Where exactly am I supposed to put this stupid cart when the shop is open?”

Customers are far and few between, they both know this. The regulars only come twice a week at best. Shiro catches the playful lilt in Keith’s voice as his fingers rap against the metal.

“This isn’t a shopping cart,” Shiro counters. “With good terrain, it’s an emergency exit.”

Keith raises an eyebrow at that, but says nothing more. He props his feet up on the coffee table, idly unfolding the cover notes of a new record filling the silence with its notes. This time, he is actually reading. Shiro watches him, quiet and curious. The edges of the puzzle are slotted together, but sometimes Keith remains the biggest enigma. All the facets to him evade his reach. Just when one thing starts to make sense, another thing contradicts it despite complimenting it at the same time. Shiro is only more charmed by these paradoxes. Like now, for instance.

“You know,” he starts, wetting his lips. “You don’t really seem like the city type.”

“Oh yeah?” Keith sets the cover sleeve down, pressing a hand into it to crumple the pages. Shiro swears he doesn’t hallucinate the batting of those long pretty eyelashes. He swallows, slow. God. It takes a second to regather himself.

“Yeah. You look like you were born to be wild.”

A moment passes. Keith’s leg kick off the table, eyes snapping up. There’s mild amusement glistening in them.

“Steppenwolf, 1969.”

“That’s right. But still.” _What are you doing here, really?_

As expected, Keith hears it. He’s starting to get far too good at picking up on their many unspoken things.

“We lived in an abandoned shack for a few months,” Keith parts with in a low hushed voice. There’s reverence there. Something private lingering in his eyes. “Zoms fry in the desert heat, so we never got bothered. But we were way too close a Garrison perimeter. They were expanding the quarantine zone.”

Shiro doesn’t need Keith to fill in those blanks. A cosmic half-turned wolf would not be something most people could turn a blind eye to. A military facility would hardly take such a thing lightly, or probably even kindly. Not in a time where fear drives people to mutate into monsters far worse than the ones they imagined beneath their beds. Sometimes, even worse than the Zoms.

“I’m sorry. That can’t have been easy, to leave your home.”

“It’s more of a chance than some people got,” Keith muses, eyes drifting to the windows. 

A lone Zom wanders down the street, aimless and devoid of anything remotely human. It’s leg is twisted, arm dangling at an impossible angle by its side. But it doesn’t seem to show any signs of discomfort. Such a grim, grotesque existence. So close to them, but so far from the world Keith has dragged him into. They watch it pass by the windows. Once out of sight, Keith stirs.

“Just now.” Something insistent in that voice cuts through. He inches closer to Shiro. “You said ‘we’.”

Shiro stirs. There’s a question in Keith’s eyes, one far too prominent and demanding an answer. Oh god. _Oh._

“Lisa Stansfield,” he says instead of all the things dancing on his tongue. Keith falters, eyes widening. And the way he freezes tells Shiro everything. “That… the day at the record store. That was a date.”

Strangely romantic, considering the circumstances. With an eye roll, Keith leans further forwards.

“Took you long enough.” Pause. Biting his lip, Keith furrows his brow. He seems caught in a chasm, halfway between confidence and uncertainty. “You said ‘we’.”

There’s no way to evade this. Voice lowering, Shiro smoothes his thumb over that sharp jawline. Keith gasps, pressing into it.

“I don’t really have anywhere else to be.” Another tender stroke, from the chin to the nape of Keith’s neck. “Even if I did, I’d rather stay.”

 _“Then stay_ ,” Keith punches out between his teeth. _Please stay,_ burns through the gentle touches that caress his shoulders. _Please_ , screams the trembling of his hands. _Please,_ the imploring eyes.

Their lips touch. It’s not electric. But it’s real and alive and it’s full of everything lost to the mindless creatures that roam the streets. It’s everything Shiro needs.

Something human. 

**Author's Note:**

> i have this absolutely absurd headcanon that amongst classic rock and blues keith has an inexplicable affinity for lisa stansfield only nobody knows or expects this - i just love to indulge this. the song they dance to is [ change ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2KM_43lDVRs) .


End file.
